dreaming earth, tucked into monochromes,
shadowless white against your black chin.
soft in your old age, but tireless in
your changing. the legs on your cheeks,
they skip too fast to feel your smile
inches shifting to spread with color
and then back again, to closed lips.
you yawn. when you finish, three generations
have skipped on by.
forgive our impatience
with your winter, but we do prefer
to run our hands through your hair.
(spring, O dancer, come wake the earth
come burrow into her ears and thrill her
sing so she cannot sleep for dreaming)
Spring, where art thou?
(My daily poetic challenge can be found here.)